I’m just not going to make a poem today. My brain feels so scattered, I think the only thing holding it together is my skull. Heat? Maybe. More likely the increasing difficulty with being older and watching the world change into something we envisioned only not like this. (non sequitur? no.) Life now resembles a city’s marathon, only you’re not in the race anymore, in fact, you’re not even on the sidewalk watching. You’re up in your apartment looking down and saying, “I wonder what they’re doing down there?”
In lieu of posting nothing, I took a walk around the yard.
Lovely, ubiquitous goldenrod. Prime suspect in my investigation into the dermatitis which has cropped up again. July 2026.
One of the few remaining non-natives. Couldn’t bring myself to rip out what amounts to a mailbox decoration. July 2026.
Our purple coneflowers typically droop starting this time of year, but pounding rain a week ago didn’t help. Good thing these guys were tied up beforehand. That’s mountain mint in the background. July 2026.
Our yard now represents a pollinator’s dream. Here an eastern bumblebee (I think) heads off for the next blooming sprig of anise hyssop. July 2026.
One of the strangest plants: rattlesnake master. Is it called that because of the thorned, sword-like leaves? Or the spiky flower-balls? It didn’t flower last year, nor did it come close to growing over six feet tall as it has this year. July 2026.
There you have it. Perhaps my melancholy intro will produce a poem later tonight. Time to get down to the pub.
Every day I want 24 hours between today and tomorrow: Breathe I want to quit feeling this tightness across my chest: Breathe I want my stomach to desire food as much as my mouth Breathe I want to enjoy beer as food not medicine Breathe I want to feel as if I know what I'm doing Breathe I want to feel less as if we're doing something wrong Breathe I want to get out of here Breathe
Full of breath I ran screaming; mere hellish jobs looked great Compared to my hell-hole.
I didn’t post yesterday’s poem for which I feel profoundly guilty since my intent had been to post two poems. The day intruded and at 5 p.m. I decided a beer with my wife took precedence over composing the final two lines…and then dinner…and the Home Run Derby… Still trying to catch up to the date: maybe #30 on the 30th? With a two-week vacation coming up, I fear I’ll fall behind again.
Whatever shall I wear today? I've far too many clothes to play This game on ev'ry waking morn. Perhaps something already worn On days just past; but then again, I'll think that they'll remember when, (Though I've no thought for theirs).
This 'problem' stems from when I pay To 'fix' some fashion gone astray. Perhaps more neutrals? Then I'd mourn Outfits bold which would adorn My daily jeans I've donned since when They came bell-bottomed—way back then— And I still had my hairs...
I loved that shirt and miss that hair. March 1977.
Every day a poem: Dawn's introductory stanza Sets me up—better, worse, or In-between. By Breakfast's lines Attitude starts setting, casting Today's foundation. Theme, style, music, tone, harmony, dissonance, all proscribed by this early start. Takes composer's interference to Change this line, this development. Afternoon either resolves all notes, or abandons them to dissipate into "well there's always tomorrow."
"I used my best project management skills! I had sub-projects, dependent tasks, timelines, mileposts! And deliverables? My God! I had 'em comin' out My ass! But scope creep
blew it up. Mileposts changed. Life wanted new measures, new deliverables. I couldn't make sense of it. I adapted, changed, tried to be successful, but when my project finished
I'd delivered someone else's project entirely. Now I'm just confused: Am I a success or did I fail miserably?"
Mostly to show a friend. My grandfather took these at what I presume is the annual Seafair Parade in Seattle. I snagged all of his slides when they landed at my parents’ house, and I’ve digitized about 25% of them. And when I went looking for a photo from the parade, I find I’ve posted one once before. Better go find it…
Photo by R. O. Bach. Seafair Parade (?) in 1953. Seattle, WA.
A friend from the blogosphere is publishing 100 poems in 100 days. I’ve decided to at least try to do that, and I’m going to try to catch up with her by publishing multiple poems per day for a week or so. While in Scotland just about 30 days ago, riding along in a tour bus, I marveled at the ubiquitous sheep and the beautiful landscape out the window.
In Southern Scotland
Sheep dot grassy fields, Their sides shagging wool. Clouds scud through skies, Like inverted sheep, woolly sides down. Dark ones Sprinkle naturally holy water: Priests of nature, they Remind all—sheep, cows, Tourists in buses—of our Divine brotherhood.
A funny thing happened on the way to this post a week ago: all three monitors started blinking on and off rapidly for 20 seconds and then my video driver software said it had crashed. Since I thought I had installed it only two months previously, I swore and deleted said software… Not a good idea. After rebooting I had only one monitor functioning and it displayed smaller fonts/icons and a fuzzier image. Turns out I had only updated the driver a couple months before. Two days later I’m humming along with three glorious monitors again, but not enough time in each day to complete this post. Wherewith…
After experiencing Edinburgh, Scotland, and England’s Lake District on our recent tour of the United Kingdom, we headed toward Llandudno Bay, Wales. Just before we arrived, though, we took in the Bodnant Garden, a National Trust property near Conwy and Llandudno Bay. The five generations of one family developed it, and Henry McClaren donated it. I got that from Wikipedia mostly, and would recommend a quick tour over to that page because the photos capture it very well. It’s 80 acres present all sorts of habitat from well-manicured English garden to “nearly wild” and has exotic species like the American sequoia. (Hey, it’s exotic there.) We started walking in a summery rain shower but the sun soon overcame it; we regretted layering for rain as we sweated our way into a steep gully and back out.
The McClaren mansion. The family still lives there…on occasion. Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
Seemed to be a lot of locals enjoying a Sunday afternoon in the garden. Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
The couple above were gazing into the gully (when not gazing into each other’s eyes, I presume). If they had turned around they would have seen…
Bodnant Garden, Wales. June 2026.
The light varied. As we descended into the gully, cut by a fast-moving stream, it grew dark—not because the clouds had obscured the sun, but because the foliage had. As we walked along the stream, it got lighter. We found some old stone buildings, repurposed into a refreshment center. We however needed to head back to our bus and Llandudno.
all the voices in my head 